


Rotten Eggs

by usakiwigirl



Series: Redisourcolor Challenges 2011 [3]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-09
Updated: 2012-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:43:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usakiwigirl/pseuds/usakiwigirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been three weeks since Abbadon. Ianto returns to his flat for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rotten Eggs

**Author's Note:**

> Challenge 14 - kitchen theme; condign, shower gel, expel; 'Look. A map of Cardiff. Isn't it brilliant?'

He was so tired as he reached for the keyhole in his door, that it took three tries just to insert it properly. It was another three seconds before his foggy brain caught up, and he stopped turning it to the left, instead of the right.

It was two weeks since the team had turned on Jack and opened the Rift. Two weeks since his heart had stopped after Owen shot Jack in the head. Two weeks since Abbadon had run rampant through the city, culminating in Jack’s death once again.

It was three days shy of two weeks since his heart had been ripped from his chest, seeing Jack finally rise from the dead, only to lose him for good not an hour later as he disappeared on the Plass.

He’d spent all of his time since in the Hub, cleaning up the mess left after the Rift storm, repairing the coffee machine, tidying and sorting all the paperwork in Jack’s office.

Avoiding the inevitable return to his cold flat, where he and Jack had spent the night, before it all went to hell.

He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves as he opened the door. The wave of anguish that washed over him was expected. What wasn’t, was the smell of rotting and decayed food that wafted from the direction of his kitchen. He wrinkled his nose in disgust as he stepped in and closed the door. Normally, he’d toe off his shoes and hang his suit jacket in the closet, but this time thought better of it. He turned instead and made his way directly to his bedroom, closing his eyes as he walked past the kitchen door, not wanting to see just yet.

Resolutely turning his mind away from what he’d done the last time he stepped in his bedroom, he shucked his suit and dragged on the oldest pair of jeans he could find, following it with a ratty t-shirt. Jack had worn the t-shirt around the flat, with nothing else, after their frantic coupling by the front door. He could still smell him, with a slight undertone of sex, the scents permeating the fabric. The dull ache around the hole in his chest burned just a little as he lifted the hem to his face and inhaled.

Normally, he wore no shoes around the house. Jack had often joked about his hairy toes - Hobbit feet, he called them. Now, he pulled on his oldest trainers, not knowing what was in the kitchen and unwilling to risk an infection, now that they were short-handed. Armed for the worst, he left the bedroom towards the smell.

He stopped dead in his tracks at the door. The kitchen looked like a bomb had detonated - or Abbadon himself had picked up everything and upended it on the floor. The door of the fridge was wide open, with spilled contents all over the floor. Broken eggs, far beyond their use-by date anyway, were mixed in with milk, cheese, beer and one lone apple. The entire mess looked like a toddler had been set free with instructions and ingredients to bake a cake. Broken glass was mixed in from the beer and milk, leaving him glad that he’d chosen to wear trainers.

His plates and cups had fallen off the shelf above the counter, some still intact, but most broken beyond repair. The pieces of crockery added to the mess on the floor, with the drawer that housed his utensils also emptied. Looking at it, he wasn’t so sure the mess was the result of Abbadon anymore. It looked more like a bunch of chavs had rampaged through his kitchen with little regard for personal property. Even the contents of his pantry were no longer stacked neatly on the shelves, instead scattered haphazardly amongst the milky mess on the floor.

He carefully picked his way to the sink, reaching under for a large bin liner to start the cleanup. Large food items first, separating salvageable from revolting and disposing as necessary. As he worked, the miasma of sour milk and sulphur from the eggs slowly burned its way into his sinuses, erasing what little smell of Jack he was getting from the t-shirt. Stopping for a moment, he stripped it off his body, tying it around his face and immersing himself in the strong and familiar scent.

He bent down to pick up a bottle off the floor. Shower gel. A snort escaped him, as he remembered why it was in his pantry and not tucked under the bathroom sink.

\-----

 _“Jack, be serious. That doesn’t go in the pantry, it belongs in the bathroom.”_

 _“Lighten up, Ianto. You never know when you might run out of kitchen soap, or need to wash your body in a hurry.”_

 _“That is the poorest excuse ever. I have never run out of kitchen soap and there’s a bathroom not five steps from here.”_

 _Jack pulled him close, dropping a quick kiss on his lips as he pressed him back against the counter. It soon turned messy and frantic, as per usual, and Ianto found himself facing the large kitchen window, holding on for dear life as Jack worked him from behind. He was dirty and sticky when finished, while Jack stood back with a satisfied smirk on his face._

 _“See? Point made. Shower gel is a necessity in the kitchen.”_

\-----

He carefully placed the gel back in the pantry. It was a good reminder of a fabulous night with Jack.

A small bottle of chocolate syrup caught his eye. It had a large crack running up the side, with sticky chocolate goo leaking out onto the floor. With more than a little regret, he dropped it in the bin bag. The last time he’d seen the bottle, Jack had been squeezing out a pattern on his chest.

\-----

 _“Look! A map of Cardiff. Isn’t it brilliant?” Jack looked up at him with an expression on his face that only Ianto saw. It was filled with childlike wonder, and warm affection._

 _“It bloody well does not. It’s a chocolaty, squiggly mess.”_

 _“Does too. Look, there’s Penarth Road and Grangetown Link. And here, the A4055, and the roundabout to the A4232, and then the Butetown Tunnel.” Jack traced out the map with his tongue, licking up the chocolate syrup and leaving Ianto a squirming mess._

 _Ianto expelled a breathless laugh, following it with a groan, as Jack punctuated his description with a bite to his nipple to signify the roundabout. The map had acted as glue to stick their bodies together, as he’d pushed Jack over onto his back and taken him._

\-----

He straightened from his cleaning. Most of the large items were now gone. It was just the liquid mess left to clean. A small stack of newspapers on the counter - miraculously not tossed about into the muck - caught his eye. As he spread them out over the milk and eggs, the partially filled-in crossword caught his eye.

\-----

 _Ianto stood at the stove, pushing eggs around the fry pan as they slowly cooked. Jack was sitting quietly at the table, paper spread out in front of him, pencil stuck between his teeth as he tried to finish the crossword._

 _“Appropriate… appropriate… hey, Ianto, what’s another word for appropriate?”_

 _“What do you have?”_

 _“Seven letters, second is ‘o’, last is ‘n’. Has a secondary clue of ‘deserved‘. Nothing else.”_

 _“Try ‘condign’.”_

 _“Yeah, that’s good. How did you figure that out?”_

 _Ianto turned and looked at him, one eyebrow raised in query._

 _“Right. Forget I asked.”_

 _“Here, eat your eggs. The crossword can wait until later. We have to get ready for work.”_

\-----

It was such a mundane, even domestic conversation to have with Jack. He sat heavily on the floor as the reality of the situation truly hit him.

Jack was gone. The man who had turned him around, given him meaning again, had left without so much as a post-it stuck to the desk. He couldn’t even know for sure, if he would ever see him again.

The mess on the kitchen floor seemed a metaphor for his life. Ignored, out of date, a total disaster.

Looking around, he decided to view this as an opportunity, to pick up the pieces and move on. Jack may or may not return, but he would continue. The hole in his chest would still bleed, but he’d not let it slow him down.

If - no, when - Jack returned, Ianto Jones would be a changed man. Stronger, emotionally and mentally. No longer dependent on another to feel good about himself.

He hoped. Life was, after all, as fragile as an egg. Drop it, even just a little, and cracks would appear. Drop it from slightly higher, and it would break completely.

End 


End file.
